Down Under
by lokiwinchesterson
Summary: Your name is Caliborn. But it's also Calliope. You're bipolar, depressed, ADHD, and schizophrenic. You have a split personality and tend to want to kill people. You're pretty sure you'll die alone.
1. Preface

Daddy says you're not like the other kids at school. He calls you special, but you know it kills him to say it, because he tends to wince when he lands on the last word. Sometimes, you can hear him crying at night. You think he cries because of you. But when you asked him about it, he said that he just misses Mommy.

You think he's lying, but you're not sure.

...

The other kids at school pick on you and tell you that Daddy doesn't really love you and that he's going to get rid of you soon. One part of you wants to go cry. The other part of you wants to go smash their heads into the wall. But you try to ignore that part.

You're scared that what the kids say are true; that Daddy will get rid of you once you turn six.

You don't want to leave.

You don't want Daddy to let go.

...

You hate school. Sometimes, you just want to make all the people in the school disappear, especially the ones that try to hurt you.

But what you want more than anything is to rip out their insides and see them bleed. You want to hear them scream and cry, begging for mercy.

You're scared from those thoughts and you tend to skip school. You don't want to hurt anyone, but at the same time, nothing will make you happier.

...

You asked Daddy what your name was. He said that your name was Caliborn. You told him that you hate that name and that it's a pathetic excuse for a fucking name that you've ever heard.

Daddy sent you to your room and you could hear him crying all night.

You slept with a smile on your face.

...

You asked Daddy what your name was. He told you Calliope. You told him that you loved him and you made him dinner that night.

He still cried.

You still smiled in your sleep.

...

Daddy told you that you were going someplace special. He said that it's a place for kids like you. You wonder what that means, but you're pretty sure it means kids with your condition. You're scared the whole ride there, but Daddy holds your hand, so that makes everything better.

You get to the place and walk inside with Daddy, holding his hand the entire way there. You have a backpack slung over your shoulder filled with all your clothes and favorite things.

A nice lady named Rose hands you a lollipop and goes over to talk with your dad. The candy is red, your favorite flavor. You look around the room and see pictures of different animals along the walls. It's very interesting and colorful. It reminds you of the playground at school.

Rose and Daddy some back. Daddy is crying like he does almost every night. Then he hugs you and tells you that he loves you. You say it to him back and he calls you Calliope. He whispers goodbye and you tell him that you'll see him later. You say that you'll make him dinner when you get home, but he doesn't answer you. He walks away and doesn't say a thing.

Rose takes you to a nice room with green walls and a carpeted floor, which you never had at your house. You always had hardwood. Rose tells you that you'll be here a while, until you're older and able to go places alone. But you don't mind, you say, as long as Daddy comes a visits you often.

Rose tells you that, no, Daddy won't be visiting often.

Like Daddy, that night, you cried yourself to sleep.

You wonder if he is crying as well.


	2. Freedom Is What Ruined Your Brain

Eighteen. It's been eighteen years since you've been here. Every day, the same. You wake up, get served breakfast that tastes weeks old, you go to therapy, you eat lunch that tastes months old, you go to personal sessions, you take a break, you eat stale dinner, you sleep. You have no freedom and no happiness. Not since the bastard you called a father dumped you here because he was too ashamed to have a "different" son.

You've been experiencing the same routine, every day, for the past eighteen years of your life. You're twenty-five, god dammit. You're an adult and more than capable of handling yourself. Sure, you still no different than you were when you were seven, but that doesn't mean you can't manage.

Calliope and Caliborn still exist inside you. Though you go by the name Caliborn, your other half still appears every once in a while, all smiles and fucking chuckles. Your depression has gotten worse over the years and you are still very much unstable. You really, really want to kill someone at this point. And her name starts with an R and ends with an ose. You'd like nothing more than to watch her die and scream for mercy, while you laugh over her bloodied body. Sure, you're a bit crazy.

But, fucking hell, you want out.

You're in the middle of breakfast; the food this time is better than usual, but it still smells like rotten eggs. At least they tried to warm it up this time. You're separating your eggs from your fruit when you hear the familiar tap of lavender-colored high heels click against the floor of the high school-like cafeteria.

You sigh and stab at your sausage. You chew it irritably and take a drink of your coffee. Goddamn, why can't this woman leave you alone?

"Good morning, Caliborn," she chirps, sitting next to you. Her folder is tucked neatly under her arm and her coffee smells sickeningly sweet, like she dumped gallons of sugar in it. Her face is caked in makeup, with the same purple lipstick that she wears almost every day, except for those days she wears it black. There are only a few wrinkles on her aged face and she has a very graceful, slender form. If you didn't hate her so fucking much, you may even say she's _pretty_.

But maybe that's just the Calliope talking in you.

You bring the coffee cup up to your lips and scowl as her lavender eyes watch your every movement, like a predator stalking its prey. "Do you really have to start this right now?" you hiss. "It's too early for this bullshit."

She smirks slightly, the corners of her eyes crinkling a bit. "I thought you'd be happy to see me, considering the circumstances." She paused as she saw your confused expression. "Hmm, Scratch must not have told you, then."

You raise an eyebrow. "Told me what?" you asked, taking a sip of coffee.

"Hmm…" is her only reply as she watches you with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

You cringe and sigh. You don't want to deal with this bullshit right now. You have a splitting headache and you're far too tired to deal with her cryptic shit right now.

"Lalonde, I'm not in the mood. What did Doc not tell me that you know?" You take another bite of your cold sausage.

You nearly choke on your food as she replies, "My apologies. Sorry, dear. But, tomorrow you will be leaving here. For good."

Rose laughs as you start coughing and hacking, your eyes watering. You take a gulp of coffee and breathe deeply. "W-what did you say?" you rasp, gripping at the sides of the table.

She smirks and handed you the manila folder that has your name on it. Inside are a few forms that would legalize you leaving. They look like heaven to you. "You're an adult now, so you will be checking yourself out. Tomorrow at eight, you will leave here for good. If you get in any sort of trouble between now and then, your ass is staying here. You hear me?" she says in a threatening tone.

You nod, not being able to form any coherent words. You don't want to fucking _thank _Rose for all that she's done, because, seriously, what _has _that woman done to help you? All you've been doing all your life is talk about your feelings and some fuck like that.

Rose places her hand on top of yours, making you flinch. "Don't touch me," you growl. But she only smiles in return and stands up.

"I'll be expecting you to be in my office today, like usual, you hear?" she says. She leaves, not waiting for a reply.

You eat all of your food, not caring if it's cold.

…

The day seems brighter than most. Of course, you haven't seen sunlight in a long time. The last time they let their patients outside, ten of you tried to escape, you included. You were only fifteen then. You squint as you look outside the familiar doors that you once came in through when you were only seven. It seemed like such a short time ago, when really, it was the longest time of your life.

Rose is waiting by the door, your bag in hand. She isn't smiling or frowning. She's just standing there passively. When you approach her, she stiffens, but smiles all the same. She holds out the bag for you to take. "We had to make sure you didn't put anything potentially threatening in there," she said.

You snorted. "So I won't hurt any of the _innocent little people_?" you sneer.

She frowns. "Or yourself."

You shut up and sigh, slinging the bag over your shoulder. You look at the woman who practically raised you. Even though you can't stand the sight of her, you'll somehow find it in somewhere in your heart to miss her.

_Oh, who are you kidding?_

You laugh and walk out, not acknowledging your mentor one bit. You are _free_, for once in your life! The sun on your tan face feels wonderful. The fresh air is wonderful. The feeling of breeze running through your dark hair is wonderful. _The feeling of fucking freedom is wonderful. _

You grin menacingly, thinking of all the possible things you can do with this newfound freedom. You could do so many things. Getting a job is out of the question, considering that no one would want to hire a fuck up like you. Getting a place is stay is a no-go as well, because you're, well, broke. And you really don't want to be locked away again, so doing anything _too _illegal is a nada. There's not much you can really do, even though you're free from the place that brought you hell every day.

But then the idea pops into your mind. It's so brilliant and wonderful, you're even proud of yourself.

"Time to visit Daddy," you hiss, laughing.


	3. And He's Walking With Strangers

You stare down at the stone, your expression impassive. Your dark brown, nearly red eyes are dry, no tears fall out. You don't cry. You don't shed a single fucking tear. You feel no sorrow for the man that didn't even _want _you. His name is engraved on the stone, etched in forever. He died two years ago, on July 28th. You distinctly remember a chill in the air on that day, or maybe a slice of freedom and demons dragging the bastard down to hell.

You don't smile or frown. You just stare at it, not moving an inch. You hope he's suffering down in hell. You dearly wish you could have told him to rot in hell one more time. At least then he'd get an invite and welcome.

There's a slight breeze in the autumn air, chilling you to the bone. Dead leaves splay across the ground, in different festive colors of brown, red, orange, and gold. They drag across the ground and pass you, blowing off into the breeze, toward freedom and death. There's a ceremony going on across the cemetery from you. You can hear the soft weeping of the loved ones of the deceased.

It's funny, how they mourn for someone who probably deserved to die in the first place.

A couple is sitting on a bench next to a headstone. They're holding hands. The girl is crying, holding a bouquet of white roses, while the boy is letting her cry into his shoulder, a few tears streaming down his face.

_It's funny_, you think again, _that I'm the only one not crying._

Leaves crunch beside you and you can feel the presence of another beside you. You tense, but don't look at the person; you just stare at your father's name, repeating it over and over in your head in distaste. His name makes you sick just thinking of it. _I hate you; _you whisper to him in your head, _I hate you more than anything in this god-forsaken world. _

"You're not crying."

Your head whips to the side, and you immediately shoot a deadly glare at a boy next to you. You contain your laughter as you look at him. He's got tan skin and yellow hair that has too much gel in it to be healthy. He's wearing ripped jeans, a hoodie, and biker boots. He's wearing the most ridiculous shades you have ever seen in your entire life. You ignore the tiny voice in the back of your mind that notices the small and pale freckles on his face and how his arms are muscled very nicely.

Go away, Calliope.

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock," you growl.

The stranger chuckles; it's short and breathy, almost like a whisper floating in the wind, being carried away by the other tortured souls of the world. "It just seems ironic, you know? This place was meant to be a hoard for dead bodies and sadness, and you're the only one not crying. Wonder why that is?" He says it so nonchalant, and it makes your blood boil. What gives _him _the right to talk to you about your feelings? Goddamn, he sounds like Rose.

"What about you? You don't seem to be aboard the waterworks trestle. Where's the fucking tears flowing passionately down your face, while your little girlfriend sobs all over your _very expensive _Wal-mart jacket?" You hiss the end for emphasis and intimidation.

Apparently, the whole intimidation bit didn't work out, because the idiot just seems to grin lazily at you. "Oh man, I'm fucking broken inside, you have no idea. The tears are in the blood, man. They're in the blood."

You just sort of stare at him for a moment, a bewildered expression on your face. You just… stare. Seriously, is this guy on something? Because, whatever it is, you want it. You want to be able to actually _smile _for once in your life. But, unfortunately, that is a nada. Your life is one big bag of horse shit.

It sucks, big time.

He waves a hand in front of your face, trying to get your attention. "Hey, you there, bro? Shit, I don't know CPR or whatever I'm supposed to do in this kind of situation. Come on, English, speak to me."

"You are the most idiotic person I have ever conversed with," you say in disbelief. Seriously, this _guy_. "And my name is not English," you add with a growl.

He smirks a bit, which makes you even angrier. "Yeah, well I can hear the accent even if you try to hide it. It's no use, bub. The jig is up." He makes a gun with his fingers and shoots you. "Bang."

You don't smile, but you do have to force a laugh in. "Why are you talking to me? Seriously, you're a complete stranger. Plus, you're a fucking creep."

Then he _holds out his hand_. Like it's completely okay to introduce yourself after trying to shoot someone with a finger gun. "Dirk Strider, twenty-two. Fashion designer and mechanic extraordinaire. I'm out of college. I like seafood, white wine, long walks on the beach, and puppets."

_Puppets. Oh lord. _

You snort, rolling your eyes. "You're still a weirdo. What kind of adult likes puppets?"

He fucking _grins_. "Oh shit, lots of 'em. I may be the only one who has a complete fetish over them, but still." You scrunch up your nose in distaste at the word 'fetish.'

"Like I said, creepy."

He ignores your comment and wiggles his fingers, itching for you to shake his hand. "So, what's your name, Mr. Grumpy Umpus?"

When you give him this _look_ that just reads, 'you're a complete idiot, stay away from me,' he grins and chuckles like a goddamn hyena, and _fuck _you hate him already. You just want him to leave you alone and stay out of your life forever. You're not good with people. But that doesn't stop you from slapping away his hand and muttering your name.

"Hmm, what an interesting name. Say, Caliborn, what do you do for a living?" He seems abso-fucking-lutely enthralled by what you have to say and, _Jesus_, why won't he just leave you _alone_?

"Like I would tell you," you snort, rolling your eyes. "Why the hell would I tell some random stranger about myself?" You want to laugh more at his idiocy.

"That's how you make friends," he pouts. "You should try it some time."

"No thanks."

"So who died?" he asks, nodding at the gravestone. "You don't seem very sad about it, so I'm going to say you have daddy issues or something like that. Maybe you didn't like the bastard. Well, you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family." He hums and continues, "I'm here for my bro. Died a war hero and I'm a fucking shithead who can't even climb up one of those ropes to reach the bell. High school P.E. was torture for me."

You scowl, not really caring about his life. But apparently he already knew most of yours from one glance. "Piss off, fuckwad."

He grins. "So I was right. You did have daddy issues. Heh, don't we all?" He looks at his watch and sighs. "Well, guess I better be going now. I have a tea party to attend to."

You raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"My dear friend throws the best tea parties. You should come sometime. She invites the most interesting people you'd ever meet. And her mother is quite lovely and terrifying as well." He looks dead serious.

You gape at him in horror. "Didn't I say to piss off?"

He leaves with a smirk and salute of farewell, signaling that you'll meet again. "See you later, English." You growl and yell at him that you will most _definitely not be seeing him again_. And that your name is _not English_.

He tells you that you'll see each other again, one way or another.

You really hope not.


End file.
